


absolutely nothing

by likecharity



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: Child Neglect, Domestic, F/M, Incest, Neglect, Recreational Drug Use, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-19
Updated: 2008-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1688429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likecharity/pseuds/likecharity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While their Dad's away and their Mum's out of her head, the Stonem siblings have to fend for themselves, and there's still one more aspect of Tony's life that hasn't quite gone back to how it was before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	absolutely nothing

1.

She washes the dishes even though they're running out of food to eat off them. They've been piling up around the whole house since Dad went away and Mum went out of her head, and usually she's not one to care about mess, but she's been tidying up all afternoon thanks to the speed she got from Cassie. Her energy seems endless, but she's got nowhere to go. She may as well put it to some use.

The dishwasher's filled and on, but there are still dishes left over, and she fills the sink with hot soapy water and plunges them in, scrubbing with sponges and brushes, headphones in her ears and the music on full volume.

Tony slouches into the kitchen and greets her, but gets no response, and comes up behind her, gently pressing a hand against her back. She jolts, splashing him with hot water as she spins round. He laughs at her and flicks the headphones from her ears.

"Wanker," she spits.

He pulls a face. "When'd you become such a little housewife?" he grins, eyeing her. Her hair is tied back messily, a few strands sticking to her forehead, and the front of her white t-shirt is soaked through with water. He can see the bright purple of her bra showing through. He averts his eyes.

She's threatening him with a food-encrusted brush, but then she sees his mobile phone in his hand and she just laughs and shakes her head, tossing the brush back into the sink. "Texting Michelle still?" she asks.

"Yeah," he says, sighing. "She hasn't replied to my one from earlier, so--"

"Oh, Tony," Effy says, smile tugging at her lips, her voice soft and fake, "you just can't take a hint. So naïve."

She reaches to stroke his cheek, and her fingers are slick with washing-up liquid. He jerks away from her touch. "You're supposed to wear gloves, you tit," he says, heading back towards the door and flipping open his phone. "They're in the cupboard under the sink."

 

2.

"What are you doing?" she asks him, coming into the kitchen the next day to see her brother sitting at the table staring hopelessly at the screen of his mobile phone.

"Texting Michelle."

" _Again?_ "

"It's only the tenth one," he snaps, and she raises an eyebrow and crosses the room, effortlessly pulling herself up onto the counter.

"Whatever," she says. "Can you make us some tea? I'm starving."

"Get Mum."

"She's asleep."

"You mean passed out," he corrects. "Anyway, there isn't anything."

She rolls her eyes and, from where she's sitting, opens the cupboard door with a slender foot and peers inside. "Not true," she retorts, and hops off the counter again to investigate the contents of the cupboard.

Tony sighs and starts his eleventh text. Effy clatters about behind him; he hears shuffling of boxes and rustling of packets, the click and slam of cupboard and fridge doors.

When the text finishes sending, he looks up to see Effy standing before him with her arms full of food. "We can't eat any of that," he says. "I've looked. It's all flour and stock cubes and stuff."

She shakes her head, says, "It is _not_ , brother dear," and spreads the items across the table. She picks up a brownish-green apple and strokes her thumb down its wrinkled, bruised skin. "A starter," she smiles.

Tony snorts.

She puts the apple back down, instead pointing to a nearly-empty packet lying limp on the table. "For the main course, there's spaghetti," she says, then points to a lone slice of blue-tinged bread, "or this, if you'd prefer." Tony makes a face. "There's also this tin of chickpeas that I think we've had since...around 1998," she adds, holding it up, "or cereal, but we had that for lunch, so I thought --"

"Spaghetti, then," Tony says, "but all the saucepans are dirty again."

She grins and slides a stick of spaghetti out of the packet. She bites it with a loud crunch, grinding the hard pasta between her teeth. "We'll eat it raw," she says, talking with her mouth full, and Tony just laughs and shakes his head.

They cut the mould from the stale bread and toast it, slathering it with the disgusting homemade plum jam that Auntie Pam gave the family at Christmas. They rinse the chickpeas and put them in a bowl, but neither can bear to taste them, and Tony pours them into the bin, wrinkling his nose.

"Would you like to see the wine menu, Sir?" Effy asks him with a sly smile, coming up behind him holding a single bottle of clear liquid.

"What is that?"

"We're down to the kirsch," she says, dark eyes glittering at him mischievously.

"That's for special occasions," Tony says, not quite sure why he's attempting to argue. "Mum and Dad _never_ drink it."

"Exactly," Effy replies, twisting the top. "Special occasions, emergencies -- they're all the same really."

She falls asleep on him later that night in front of the TV. He nestles his head against hers where it rests on his chest, feeling her silky hair against his cheek. She's snoring lightly, and her breath smells of cherries.

 

3.

They go to the supermarket the next day. Mum's left them a scrawled note at the foot of the stairs, which they can barely interpret but it seems to imply she's going to be out all evening. What she'll be doing is anyone's guess. They'd rather not know.

They come back with a bottle of vodka and a bag of lollipops and call it dinner.

Effy sucks on the hard red candy and watches her brother tapping away at his phone. "Twenty?" she guesses.

Tony slams his phone down on the table and downs the rest of a glass of vodka. "Thirty-three," he corrects.

 

4.

"How many, now?" he hears her ask from the doorway of his bedroom later that evening.

"Forty-eight," he replies, flipping his phone shut and tossing it aside. He turns to her, seeing her slink into the room wearing Mum's wedding dress. He smiles. "Why...?"

"I'm playing dress-up," she tells him, and shrugs and twirls, "you like?"

"Nice," he says, looking her up and down. The dress is a little too small for her -- Mum used to be _tiny_ back in her twenties -- and it's tight, pulling in at the waist, but it suits her.

She pulls the veil over her face and peers at him from behind it. "I found Dad's tux too if you want."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, come on."

All the stuff's in the loft, cold and stiff in condensation-covered bin bags. Effy does up Tony's tie, and the bare light bulb hanging from the beam on the ceiling flickers down on them.

"You look ridiculous," she giggles, and he looks down at himself. It's true, he does. The tux is too big, hanging loosely off him everywhere except in the trousers, which he's too tall for, and they show his pale ankles jutting out from the bottom.

He nods in agreement, and their eyes meet. She wets her lips, holding his gaze. "You don't," he hears himself saying softly.

She takes a step towards him, dress rustling around her thighs as she moves. "You may now kiss the bride," she whispers, no inflection in her voice, and before he knows what he's doing, he _is_ , and she's wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing up against him and then he's stumbling back on the uneven floorboards and pushing her away.

"We can't do this again," he says, but the words sound like they're coming from someone else's mouth.

"You remember," she says simply, looking up at him. "I _knew_ it." She shakes her head, eyes narrowed, resentful. "After the accident...you acted like you didn't," she makes a disgusted noise in her throat, "you _fucking_ \--"

"The accident," he interrupts. "Yeah. It was a useful excuse."

The trousers catch on a screw in the ladder as he clatters down it, and he hears the fabric tear.

 

5.

She goes out that night, and stays out. She stops by at Chris and Cassie's, picks up some weed, and sits in the local playground until midnight, just sitting on the swings and smoking.

She thinks back in time, back to when Tony got out of hospital. She remembers the days she came too close, lips against his neck, fingers tracing patterns on his skin -- remembers how he'd always flinch, jerk away, ask her what she was doing.

She knew he hated it when people tried to explain who they were to him, talking to him like he was a baby, _and this is your mother, and this is your best friend_ , like he was retarded. He knew she was his sister, but he didn't seem to know she'd been more than that.

She kicks at a clump of grass, feeling a wave of anger course through her. _Useful excuse._ It makes sense -- he'd always wanted an excuse, never been able to come up with anything past the obvious when she fought off every 'we shouldn't' with a 'why?', and that was never good enough for her. She spits on the ground and stamps out her last spliff.

Then she finds the nearest club, switches off her mind, and dances until her feet bleed.

 

6.

When she stumbles in the next day, it's past lunchtime, and Tony's storming down the stairs the second he hears the front door. He blocks her path.

"Where the _fuck_ have you been?" he yells. She presses a hand against her forehead. She looks like shit -- make-up smeared over her face, eyes grey and dazed. Her lips are dry and cracked and her dress has a tear running nearly across its whole length.

"Out," she croaks, not looking him in the eye.

"Don't be clever," he sneers, but she just shuts her eyes tightly and hangs her head.

Neither of them speak for a few moments, and then Effy opens her eyes again and looks up at him. "Why do you care?"

"Because you're my sister." He spits out the last word like he's trying to get rid of it once and for all. He can't count the number of times he's said that sentence to her, trying to get it into her head.

"You never usually care." Her voice is low and ragged. He wonders what she's been doing all this time, wonders why he _does_ care all of a sudden. She's always going out. He's never asked before.

"Fuck, Effy," he says, his voice cracking, eyes stinging. She presses a small, gentle hand to his chest. "Don't."

She keeps it there even when he repeats himself, and he feels his heart rate quicken.

" _Fuck_ , Effy," he says again, louder this time, advancing on her, and then he shouts, "Don't!" but he's speaking to himself this time, not her, and then it's too late and he's got her against the wall, his lips pressed to the corner of hers. She opens her mouth slowly and he pushes himself harder against her, tongue slipping between her lips. She tastes like copper and old alcohol, and he fingers a ladder in the thigh of her tights.

There's a creak of worn springs behind them, followed by a loud sigh, and they part quickly. Their Mum rounds the corner, tired-eyed and yawning, and looks at them blearily.

"Effy, dear," she says. Her dressing gown is weighed down at the pocket, Tony can see the outline of a pill bottle. "You're up. We should do something today. Go out into town, yeah?"

She looks at them more closely for a moment, and Tony can hear the thud of his blood in his ears. But then she just stumbles, hand curling around the doorframe weakly, and then they're her children again -- brother and sister -- rushing to help her up, get her to bed.

 

7.

"Sixty-four," Tony says, standing in her doorway. They're always standing in doorways, waiting for some unspoken invitation in.

Effy's bedroom is smoky, and all the lights are off. She's sitting at her desk, watching a candlestick flame flicker. She doesn't look up, sings quietly, "Will you still need me, will you still feed me..."

Tony feels himself grin, and is surprised by it. "...when I'm sixty-four," he finishes, his voice loud and out of tune.

"Why do you keep texting her?" Effy asks him, still not looking at him, just watching the flame in front of her. He notices, then, that there are burnt scraps of paper spread across the desk, one still smouldering in a bowl.

"Because I want her to reply."

"Do you think she will?"

Tony shrugs. "I hope so."

"You really fucked her up."

"Yeah."

A long pause. Effy flicks her finger through the flame, quick as a flash, back and forth. "If I'd been out, 'til quarter to three, would you lock the door..." She's not singing, just saying the words under her breath, and it takes Tony a moment to realise that she's still speaking in Beatles lyrics.

"Eff, this is stupid," he says.

She glances at her watch and says, "It's your turn to check on Mum."

 

8.

"I can do it myself now, you know," Tony says as Effy opens the bathroom door and walks in.

"I know," she says. "I'm not trying to help you."

She stands there behind him, and he can't help but remember the times when she _did_ have to help him, whenever Sid wasn't there, and how she'd unzip him and murmur things in his ear and he'd just grit his teeth and pretend he didn't know what she was talking about. Pretend he thought she was sick, crazy.

"How many?" she says, shimmying out of her jeans and climbing up onto the side of the bathtub. She leans across to flick the tap on, and Tony sees that the label of her knickers is sticking out.

He ignores the question because he's up to ninety-something now and he doesn't want to tell her. "What're you doing?" he asks instead, anxiously, shifting from foot to foot. He can't piss with her in the room all of a sudden.

"Shaving my legs," she tells him, slowly like he's stupid. "I'm going out."

"And people are going to see your legs?" he asks without thinking, and she gives him a look and laughs.

"'Course," she says.

He blanches and cranes his neck to look back at her, seeing her lathering her slim calves with soap. She looks up at him sharply.

"What's the matter? Stage fright?"

He sets his jaw and zips himself back up, slamming the door behind him as he goes.

 

8.

He goes out a couple of hours after she does. Mum's in his bedroom, crying over old photo albums, and he just takes his keys and leaves without a word. She doesn't seem to notice. He goes to one of Effy's favourite clubs, drinks too much bad beer and watches the crowd from the bar.

A girl stumbles up to him, grabs his leg to keep herself upright. "My friend," she slurs, "says you're hot."

"Tell her thanks," he says, keeping his eyes focused just to the left of the girl's face.

"I think you're hot too," the girl goes on, and he takes his eyes from the dance floor for a second to look at her. She's got dyed-blonde hair and fake-tanned skin, and her lip liner's about three shades darker than her lipstick. She's about twenty, he'd guess, maybe twenty-one.

He only nods.

"So what are you doing sitting here all brooding and mysterious?" she asks, sliding into a seat next to him, hanging on his shoulder, booze-breath on his face.

"I'm looking for my little sister," he says.

"Oh, that is _so sweet_ ," she says, her voice louder than it needs to be as she speaks directly into his ear. "Protective big brother. Is she a bit of a wild one?"

He slams his beer bottle down on the bar and walks off, heading for the exit but stopping abruptly when he sees a familiar mane of dark hair in the crowd to his left.

Effy is dancing between a guy and a girl, smiling dazedly, clearly off her head. Her hands are round the guy's neck, and he looks kind of like that guy Spencer, but Tony can't tell for sure if it is. The girl's got a Cassie-like air about her, tangled hair and little-girl clothes. Effy presses back against her, throwing her head back onto the girl's shoulder. _A bit of a wild one,_ he thinks, words ringing in his ears.

Tony watches until one of them sees him -- the girl, lifting an eyebrow in what could possibly be invitation -- and then he leaves, getting out his phone on the way, fingers tapping the well-practised route to Michelle's number.

 

9.

He's starting his one-hundred-and-thirty-third text to Michelle when he hears Effy come home. He hears the quiet creak of doors and floorboards, and keeps his eyes fixed on his phone.

 _I want you_ , he types, and stares at the words, hearing Effy slip into her bedroom next door and turn on the light. He imagines her kicking off her heels, pulling down her stockings. He wonders if she'll change before bed or if she's too out of it to bother.

 _back_ , he adds, knowing he's sent that one about thirty times now, but it's difficult to try for originality once you've sent more than a hundred.

He hears Effy switch her light back off and he imagines her slipping into bed. He sighs and shakes his head, refocusing his eyes on the glowing screen in front of him. He selects 'send'. He scrolls through to Michelle, the motion almost automatic by now, and then something makes him hesitate, and he scrolls back up.

 _Send to Effy?_ his phone asks him, and he clenches a fist with his other hand and selects 'yes'.

He hears her phone beep a few seconds later, and even hears her reach for it and knock it off the bedside table by mistake. The reply comes quicker than he expects it.

_I'm touching myself._

The blood rushes through his body and his mouth goes dry, and he's in her bedroom in seconds, slipping between her sheets to find her ready and waiting there. He always liked her best this way, bright and warm and buzzing after a night out, still dizzy and drunk. They fuck with her hand over his mouth, slim finger pushing between his lips, and when he slips back to his own bed before sunrise, the image of her triumphant grin is burned into his mind.

 

10.

She's fucked up the laundry for the second time, and he wants to ask her how hard it is, just to separate the whites and the colours. _Christ._

"Milk's off," she says, like everything's normal. "I wouldn't bother with breakfast."

He wasn't planning on it anyway. Hasn't had breakfast in days.

"Still nothing?" she asks him as he flips open his phone, checking it with a sort of sinking feeling, knowing there won't be a response.

"Nothing."

"How many times have you called her?" she asks.

"Thirty-nine," he says, knowing what her next question will be.

"Texts?"

"Hundred and forty-one," he says.

"Nothing?" she asks, voice a little higher-pitched than usual. He remembers that she doesn't know that he sent another eight after coming back from her room last night.

"Nothing." He rests his head in his hand.

"Wow, Michelle really hates you."

"Yes."

"Well, you did totally fuck up her relationship."

"Right."

"You just stormed in there and fucked it right up."

"Yes, all right." She's starting to get on his nerves. How can she act like nothing's happened? Like nothing's changed? It's always been a talent of hers, and it never ceases to amaze him. And irritate him. He can play at this game, too, though, he realises. "I love her, okay?" he snaps, wondering if his words will shake her.

But all he gets is ridicule and pity. "Love?" she sneers, and he can hear the smile in her voice. She's never believed that he could love anyone the way he loves her, and she's never understood his need to try.

It disturbs him how easily he's slipping back into things now, and he knows it's her influence, the way she's so relaxed after his utter surrender last night. It's almost as if she knew his pretence would break down eventually and she was just waiting for things to return to what she sees as 'normal'.

"Oh, just leave it, Eff," he sighs.

At first he's answered only by the sound of the hairdryer as she switches it on to finish drying off their stupid pink laundry. And then her voice comes back --

"Love, love, love. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing."

He opens his mouth, ready to argue, but he thinks of what they have together and everything it's caused him, and in the end, all he can say is "Yes."  



End file.
